


tangerine

by ethia



Series: all this that is more than a wish [3]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Mention of Bondage, Squint and you'll miss it, h/c, harold's tie again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-15 21:46:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3463169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ethia/pseuds/ethia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You're a brave man, Harold Finch,” John whispers into his mouth, his fingers teasing at the waistband of Harold's pants.</p>
<p>“Well, I'd have to be, working with you,” Harold says lightly, putting his arms around John's neck for emphasis. He pecks the side of John's nose. “I don't like not being able to touch you.”</p>
<p>“That's kind of the point, here. You're meant to receive, not give.”</p>
<p>“What will I receive, I wonder?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	tangerine

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own the boys, I merely like to take them out for a spin.
> 
> Takes place after _Bad Code_ ; precedes [falling catching](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3461438), but stands on its own.

 

 

+++

 

 

The problem isn't that Harold doesn't want to talk – about _it_ , that whole fuck-up with Root and her quest for Finch's machine, or even talk at all. John gets it, he does. He can do silence, better than most.

 

Can endure it, too, for hours, days on end, if he must.

 

That's not the problem, either.

 

Nor is the fact that Harold's been distant all day, hiding behind the screen of his laptop, undeterred by the broad spread of sunshine slanting in through the window front of John's apartment.

 

He'd never admit to it, but Harold's occasional prickliness appeals to him, the sharp tone of his voice, the ruffled feathers, smoothed away under John's patient gentling of him.

 

What's eating away at John is how steadfastly Harold is refusing to take a step away from it all, break free from the funk he's worked himself into. John has never seen it last longer than a few hours, but he's already passed the morning with a slim volume from the library, following it up with a long run to work out the antsy feeling crawling under his own skin, and still Harold's all typing and frowns.

 

It stings, seeing him like this; to have him here at the cusp of his fingers, while really, Harold is far removed from him, cooped up in the tight coil of apprehension that seems to have taken a hold of his thoughts, stubbornly determined to get back on top of things, to regain the sense of control and safety that Root took away from him.

 

Drinks didn't work, and neither did talking; now it's time for a more hands-on approach. John slips the laptop out from under Harold's typing fingers and snaps it shut, not unimpressed by the way Harold doesn't even flinch with surprise, merely twisting in his chair to shoot him an annoyed look.

 

"You certainly know how to get between a man and his work, Mr. Reese."

 

Waspish, but a long way up from the monosyllables that have passed for conversation so far. John decides to take that as a good sign.

 

"You're not working, Finch. You're fretting. Have been all day. I can tell the difference."

 

"I don't think I'm following--"

 

"Not yet, no. But you're a very smart man, you'll catch on quickly. I have every confidence in you. And now I'll have your tie, if you please."

 

Polite to a fault, his demand is met with a scowl and a faint trace of indignation, Harold's voice hitching with suspicion as he speaks.

 

"What? Whatever for?"

 

"To tie you up with, Harold," John says, patiently.

 

Harold opens his mouth, then snaps it shut again, and John can see him wrap his mind around the idea, implications and all.

 

"Why?" He finally asks, meaning to what end, because he's already grasped the basic idea, of course. John can tell by the tense line of his mouth, the sharp crease between his eyes that he's parsing through the wide range of reasons John could offer to make him agree, a purpose that would sway him in favor of this unexpected proposal.

 

"All that tension you're refusing to work out? You should let it go. See for yourself that it needn't be a bad thing, not to be in control for once."

 

"And you'll make me... let go." He rolls the words around in his mouth like an unfamiliar taste, one he isn't sure he can bring himself to like.

 

"If you let me."

 

Harold stares at him for the longest time, then blinks, and licks his lips. Decision pending.

 

"I'm not sure about the tie."

 

"I am. Trust me, Harold. You'll like the tie. Now pick a word, anything will do. When you feel like I'm taking things too far--"

 

"I know perfectly well how a safe word works," Harold snaps, and John doesn't even try to resist.

 

"Kinky, Harold." John smiles around the gentle rib, watches Harold blush with it, a faint bloom of crimson on his cheeks, and John wants to put his mouth there, lap at the heat of it, furthering Harold's flustered agitation.

 

"Says the man who proposed to bind me with my own tie," Harold mutters, without much of a bite. "Orange, then, if we must."

 

That was quick, and John's breath hitches briefly in his chest. He covers with a jibe.

 

"Really? Not something a little more fancy like, I don't know, tangerine?"

 

Maybe he shouldn't enjoy it so much, teasing Harold about this, but the levity serves its purpose, if the gleam in Harold's eyes is anything to go by.

 

"Smart mouth," Harold says, fondly, in that same soft tone he usually reserves for the quiet moments when he lets John encase him in a loose embrace, their bodies sweaty and lax, the heat of their passion spent.

 

"We'd better stick with orange, I think."

 

Harold scoffs, his mouth slanted in amusement as he undoes his tie. He places it in John's hand, withdrawing his own with something of a glare, as though half expecting John to ensnare him right there and then. John raises a brow at him, dipping his chin, his very own brand of mock indignation.

 

"Relax, Harold. I'm hardly going to tie you to a chair. Very limited range of options, for starters. Not to mention hell on my back."

 

They end up on the couch, Harold's wrists tied together lightly in front of him, his back propped up comfortably against the cushions, his mouth yielding and agile under John's.

 

“You're a brave man, Harold Finch,” John whispers into his mouth, his fingers teasing at the waistband of Harold's pants.

 

“Well, I'd have to be, working with you,” Harold says lightly, putting his arms around John's neck for emphasis. He pecks the side of John's nose. “I don't like not being able to touch you.”

 

“That's kind of the point, here. You're meant to receive, not give.”

 

“What will I receive, I wonder?”

 

“Compensation,” John murmurs, pressing closer, straddling Harold's lap.

 

He takes his time, prying Harold apart, patient and gentle, learning what will draw a soft moan (the delicate sweep of his hands over the broad of Harold's back), a sharp gasp (the nip of his teeth right beneath the line of his jaw) and his name stuttered out in wonder, over and over, like a plea, like a vow (his body rising and falling over Harold's, taking him in).

 

He makes them skirt the edge a few times, shy of fulfillment, until Harold writhes in his bind, fighting to thread his fingers through John's hair, his whispers of _please, I need to, make me_ washing warmly over John's mouth.

 

John pulls him down on top of him, after; cozy under the sated warmth of Harold's weight, he lets himself enjoy the sleepy trail of Harold's fingers along the curve of his jaw, the sweep of his brow.

 

“It's okay to ask for this, you know? When you need it,” he says, when Harold's breathing is starting to even out with the first stirrings of sleep.

 

“I might not always know.” Harold's voice is muffled, his mouth busy nuzzling the short hair at the nape of John's neck. John draws the blanket down from the back of the couch, tucks them in, charmed by the way Harold nestles himself to his side, considerate even as he's starting to drift off.

 

“I'll be paying attention.”

 

“I'll trust you to.”

 

 

 

Fin.


End file.
